


Cold Head and Ten Fingers

by Randy_sensei



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, No Dragonborn, more to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 14:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randy_sensei/pseuds/Randy_sensei
Summary: Runa knows that all dues must be paid, but after a certain incident, she hopes she can leave her debts and dues behind.She tries to, but they catch up one way or another. Now she just wishes she could get out of thisalive.All she wanted was out.





	Cold Head and Ten Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work that I've written for Skyrim and I have a couple of amazing people to thank! 
> 
> All my thanks go out to my friends Sky, [paunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raunchyandpaunchy), [Platon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Platon) and [TinyOctopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyOctopus) for reading through this scrap heap and helping me fix it up!

Runa stretches the palms of her right hand in the air above the countertop. 

 

Her palm is rough, coarse and weathered from tragic misuse, but soft where a bandage was wrapped before, the knuckles reddened and skinned. The muscles strain hard against the bones and moving the hand feels like pulling coarse leather over a rack, but if it were your own skin. 

With a slow and soft exhale, the same hand reaches down for the tankard, the fingers sliding across its rough metal rim once and slithering into place between the tankard body and its handle. 

Within, the sweet concoctions scent elicits an unwanted lip bite from Runa. After the events of the past two days, this is one of the few things she can think of to act as a remedy to her. This one tankard of mead she’s been nursing has tied her over well so far. 

Runa’s forearms thrum with pain, a dull ache bouncing around within her bones. The same worn knuckles hurt where they touch the handle of the tankard, and Runa, wincing slightly, moves them from there, gripping the tankard a different way. 

Her leg bounces on the beam of her stool in as fast a rate as she can muster in her state of tiredness and disarray, while her ears perk up every time she hears a noise behind her. Every time the door opens for a solace seeking patron, a chill rushes in, seeking an opportunity to rattle Runa’s spine. It seems almost like she’s being hunted by the damned shits, seeing as everyone else is absolutely nonplussed by the storm’s bite. 

Nonetheless, she exhales the chill, her leg bouncing the shudder off and continues picking bits and bites from the Slaughterfish chunk and bread in the wooden plate in front of her. 

Something bites at the lining of her stomach in anxiety as she exhales again, wearily. 

Runa yawns and brings up her fully bandaged left hand to cover it, seeing as it isn’t good for much else. This gives her a little bit of a reminder, one as good as any, that it's time to sleep. The rented bed waiting for her upstairs sounds just about like the best thing in any of the realms right now. 

Besides, her Slaughterfish is getting cold. 

Runa slides off her stool after chomping down the last bits of her meal down and licking the oil off her fingers, then treads towards the rented room. Her eyelids feel heavy as she waves to the smiling, auburn-haired inn keep. 

Something in Runa tells her she barely has the strength to lift her legs to get up these stairs, let alone do anything else. She walks into the room and leaves the door creaked open ever so slightly. Runa pats down her wrapped up cloak where she left it after thawing in front of the hearth and folds it properly this time. 

She unties her hair, letting it fall back across the shaven sides of her head, releasing tension she hadn’t even known had cooped up in the skin of her scalp. The pitch blackness of it stands against the room’s candlelight as it spills from the back and the top of Runa’s head. 

Without much thought into her attire for sleep, she slips in under the covers in the clothes she had on a moment ago, seeking warm rest. When Runa’s head meets the pillow, the weight on her eyelids starts feeling almost unbearable with every passing second and her body gives off a low hum of relief. She stretches. 

But something seems to be missing; sleep, although it seems so very, very attainable, is just out of reach. Something is digging its pinprick-like fingers into every crevice and nook of her spine, keeping her up whether she wanted to stay awake or not. Moving to one side did naught to quell this bother and neither did the other. Runa sits up after a moment of struggle to keep her eyes shut. 

She attempts to rub her eyelids closed, but in the midst of all this, something under her bangs loudly. 

Her ears perk up in record speed when the heavy footfalls switch from a crunching sound of snow to one of metal clanging across stone. Lighting runs through her when a very, very familiar voice asks for her at the inn keep. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard that name, so I can’t help you very much.” she hears the inn keep say and it knocks a few pebbles off her stone ridden heart. “What does she look like? Perhaps she passed through here.” 

With that, the blood in her veins turns to ice as the familiar voice describes her precisely. Runa, with as much speed and as little  _ noise _ , rushes to get herself dressed. She doesn’t plan on giving up any time soon, and the hard look of determination burning across her face like a flame of hope reinforces the idea unswervingly and is used as a candle flame of hope. 

Strapping the dagger with her aching hands takes more time than she’d have liked; armor is hard to buckle into place when one of your hands hurts as if you shoved it into the flames of Oblivion itself, while the other is barely usable, but Runa manages it anyway. Her head frantically whips from corner to corner, thinking how much time she has left before the voice comes searching up here, and looking for a way out at the same time. 

After slipping her boots on, she shoves open the small window and weasels out with care. 

The roof is steeper than Runa had anticipated, the height throwing her balance through a loop for a second. 

From inside the inn, she hears a commotion. Of what kind, Runa’s not sure but she keeps moving along the roof all the same, with her hands (hand, rather) gripping the top of the roof. The moonlight shines on as if nothing were happening and in its light, it showers the way for Runa as she clambers across the roof like a sick cat. 

Once she manages to find stable footing, she looks up and over. From her spot high up along the roof, she can feel her worst nightmare come to life. 

Two, four, five… nine men stand in the plateau in front of Whiterun’s Bannered Mare. A few lanterns dotted along the path from the gate are all that provides them with aid in their quest that is, no doubt, finding Runa. 

Runa stands there, her mind whirring with thoughts. She can almost hear the gears grind in her head, like some rusty Dwemer construct well overburdened. Her head dips below the top of the roof and, after swallowing hard, Runa takes a deep breath and makes her way back down to the edge behind her. 

Most of her time relaxing had been spent hoping, praying to any of the Divines that would listen, that she wouldn’t get found tonight, especially after what happened. Truly, there hadn’t been any relaxing done at all. So much so that Runa had prayed farther than Talos for once, going so far as to pray to  _ all  _ of the Nine Divines. 

Underneath her, Runa hears footsteps. The telltale sign of booted footfalls and the sound of sheathed weapons clanging along have given the patrol away. Whether this is one of the nine men she has counted before or maybe more of them she hasn’t seen, Runa has no idea. What she does know is that her chances of reaching the outside of Whiterun’s walls are very, very thin. 

With her heartbeat pounding from her chest and to between her ears, Runa runs her fingers down the hilt of the blade at the small of her back before she grips it fully. The gesture provides some sort of odd comfort and a slight air of confidence. Runa creeps along the roof, checking behind and in front of the mercenary below her. 

She steels herself one last time, before jumping down. In the air, she notes the steel sword at the hip of the hired soldier below her. 

The merc turns at the sound of Runa landing on the ground but his reactions are far too slow. The adrenaline pumping through her blood all but  _ throws _ Runa at her opponent. Her hand darts towards the exposed area of the neck like a serpent with its prey but the man, with an agility that Runa certainly would not have described him with, dodges out of the way with ease. 

A hand swings under her, connecting with her abdomen which knocks the wind out of her and, stumbling back, the man takes this opportunity to retrieve his own weapon from the scabbard at his side. They eye each other for a little while, circling around a single spot in the road. 

Somehow, the mercenary is yet to yell for help. 

“I haven’t had any action in a while, little girl,” the sentry starts in a hushed tone as if he read Runa’s mind, “My boss wouldn’t mind your lifeless corpse.” 

Runa huffs and it borders on a scoff. The man plunges with a one handed overhead swing downwards, which she finds extremely easy to dodge. Dodging towards him, Runa switches hands with her dagger and slams her barely closed fist across the temple of the mercenary. She hisses, the pain sending pinpricks through one side of her hand. 

The mercenary stumbles and, with the dagger in her right hand, Runa aims for the neck again this time, but it sticks just under the chin, instead. The body falls limp very soon after a moment of struggle and Runa pulls the lifeless body along, with the dagger still inside the man’s head. 

His body is heavy and hard to drag into the nearby bushes but with what adrenaline Runa still has in her, she manages to do it. After she’s sure the body is well out of sight and sneaks her way towards the gate and hopefully, to her escape. 

She dusts her hands slightly, out of habit more than anything and her hands hurt on contact, to which she winces silently, cursing herself under her breath. 

Using the backstreets to escape someone or some _ thing _ had always been second nature to Runa, the only difference being the amount of danger at her heels. This time, she feels the heat of what’s on her tail in full force and it leaves her breathless far more often than she’d like to admit. 

Runa manages her way past the goods store she sold off some gear the day before when she hears something again. 

Steps behind her make her ears perk up again and her body tilts forward as she manages to get just barely out of sight of the patrol after her. Stopping at the wall she just got behind, Runa barely slides her bloodied dagger out of its place and prays that they don’t spot their deceased comrade in his makeshift hideout. 

“What even are we even supposed to be doing here,” one of the two patrolmen asks the other. 

“I’m none the wiser. All I know is, we got paid a hefty sum to come to Whiterun with some bald man,” the other answers in a monotone voice, “in the dead of night on the hunt for some Nord woman.”

The first one scoffs and bellows a laugh, “If he’s that serious about her, why does he need us? He could pay a bard to serenade her or shower her with all the gold he spent to find her rather than do all of this.” 

“Beats me,” the other says through a quiet laugh, “Though I imagine any woman could do better than him.” 

Runa releases the breath she realizes she was holding and shuts her eyes for a split second as the other patrol of two walks further and further away from the body she left. After taking a moment to compose herself, she sets off again, making her way through the back streets of Whiterun, and it's only a matter of time before they all figure out one of theirs is missing. 

Somewhere along the line, Runa mentally notes that she has no semblance of a plan besides ‘reach the gate,’  but she keeps going anyways. With her, things were often like this. Go in with no plan and go along with what happens; some could argue that this could get you killed more often than not but… it's worked for  _ her _ , and it's got her this far. 

Runa also notes the complete lack of guards and how still and silent the hold has gotten. It's unnerving, seeing a place that’s usually bustling with life in a state of emptiness such as this. Even if there  _ were  _ any guards, she imagines that many of them would pass by her half alive, beaten-to-a-pulp body with nary a possession on her without giving her a second glance. 

Most would, anyway, because she knows some of them. 

The thought makes her uncomfortable in her own skin, even though ending up that way is a risk of her trade and all. 

Runa paces gingerly around behind Breezehome and wraps her travel cloak around herself, hoping it might obscure her long enough to get out of the gates and ward off the chill at the same time. She isn’t sure how  _ he _ managed to pull all of this off but… here they are. Probably paid the guards, but with what? Runa knows from experience that the man is lacking, both in septims and morals.

Runa gives her forehead a scratch, one of her many nervous tics, and huffs, exasperated and worried beyond belief. She takes a knee behind Ulfberth’s shop and wonders if he’d forgive her if she picked his lock and looked for refuge. 

Which gives her a great idea… if only she hadn’t spent all of her lockpicks and forgot to stock up, or forge more. Of course, she would. Her heart rate quickens at an unnatural pace when the thought of there not being an easy way out of Whiterun occurs to her. The worst thing that can happen is death, obviously, but… maybe there are  _ worse _ things. 

She doesn’t want to find out. Runa feels an unpleasant chill run up and down her spine and her head shakes as she takes a few uneasy steps, unsure how to proceed. Making her way around Adrianne’s forge, the hearth of it is warm, welcoming and familiar, a nice distraction if even for just a moment. 

Entering the sewer is an idea Runa had up until she saw the sewer grates leading out of the city: barred off like a jail cell and tight enough that there’s no wiggle room for her. She sighs and steels her nerves instead, due to the fact that her only exit would be the gate. 

Runa huffs, kicking up her hood, not quite prepared to step out in the open knowing full well what it’ll bring. Without much of a plan past this awful,  _ awful _ idea, she decides it's best to just take things head on. After gathering her wits about her, Runa steps out, closing the gap between her and the gate. She hurriedly attempts to open the gate. 

She pales when it doesn’t budge. 

The sound of the locks against the door itself is replaced by a horrid and wicked laugh that twists at Runa’s stomach with cold, steel claws. Her arms go limp and the pain is numbed in her state of shock. They slide off the gate and to her sides, swaying with momentum. 

“Oh my dear, I thought you were far smarter than that.”

Runa doesn’t want to turn around, but there’s no other way to confront this. With a sigh, she turns, only to see the remaining eight men out of which another has appeared. 

“Olavald,” Runa hisses, staring daggers into the man in question, his bald head reflecting in the snowy moonlight. 

“Runa, good to see you, my child,” he smirks, his hands clasped together. From the last time Runa has seen him, Olavald has changed. There’s age to the lines in his face and his old, ratty armor has been replaced with something very similar, but new. The wicked glint his eyes have carried through life still hasn’t gone away, even despite his age. 

“Eat shit, Olavald! I have nothing to say to you,” she bites back, his slow and dreary voice his way of drawing bristles across her skin, leaving her uneasy. It feels wrong to her.

He chuckles and it almost makes Runa retch. His hands go to his hips and he shakes his bald head before looking up again to respond. “You haven’t changed a bit. You might not have anything to say to me, but that’s not why we're here.” 

The air is filled with tension; Runa can feel the bloodthirsty glares seven of the other men are shooting at her. Her eyes take in the sight of all of them and she notes they’re all equal to her in weaponry, the only upside they have over her would be numbers. 

Runa’s back is hunched and her eyes jump from one or the other. She figures out the man right next to Olavald must be the one leading all these men; his armor stands out from the rest of them all, while his grizzled, greying beard and long hair hide scars of all kinds: long, short, deep and shallow, some old, some new. Runa also sees the hilt of a giant sword emerging from behind one shoulder. 

“You  _ owe _ me,” he bites, his voice low and drenched in venom. “You know this. You can’t keep running. Pay your dues, and I will leave you alone.” 

To anyone, this sounds like a simple task: pay the man back and earn your freedom. But through years of… “working” with the man, Runa knows things are not that simple with Olavald. Olavald is a cunning, tricky man, filled to the brim with ways to screw another man over twofold. 

Things would stay the same, only the money lining his pockets wouldn’t. 

Runa almost rears and shows her teeth like an attack dog, “Things are never that simple with you, you thieving, good for nothing low life.” Her mind swirls with a thousand thoughts and the one thought of having to fight all of these men makes her sick. The outcome she thinks of the most makes her want to vomit. 

Olavald lets out a grim laugh that earns him a look from one of the men and continues. “I’m afraid you have bigger issues on your hands, now, though. You see, my  _ associate _ , here, was kind enough to lend me his men for enough coin to find you, with the promise of extra when you pay me back what you owe.”

“The one thing neither of us had expected was that one of his men turn up dead.” Runa’s blood slowly ices as Olavald continues prattling, “A hole through the front of his armor, his body left to rot in a bush. Did you think no one would see?” 

Her hands hover in the air. Runa can’t tell if all of the soldiers are about to strike or not and the explanation leaves Runa speechless and cornered like a rabid dog. 

Olavald sighs. “I’m sorry, dear friend, that things have transpired this way,” Runa can’t tell whether he’s talking to her or his associate, “Do what you must with her, but I want the remains.”

Runa pales, as the man, grizzly in both size and state, steps forward with a smirk on his face. 

“I can’t promise anything.” 

The man reaches for his sword with one arm, as thick as a log, for the greatsword located on his back. His movements are slow and methodical, yet there’s a bloodlust to them that Runa can sense, and it only shoots panic into her like an arrow. 

The steel plate of his armor shifts like water around a mountain as his hands move the sword into position in front of him, the hilt sitting at chest height. Runa huffs quickly, pulling out her meager-in-comparison dagger. Before she knows it, the brute charges at her, swinging his sword down from above his head. 

Her eyes widen and she dodges with more than enough time to recuperate, just in time to dodge out of the way of the underhanded swing that follows her dodge. It narrowly misses her stomach and she could feel the cut it would have made across her skin; Runa is quite fond of having her viscera in place, as it turns out. 

In the time she has between his attacks, she spots holes in his armor; they’re there due to design rather than wear and Runa figures she could make good use, provided her adrenaline fueled brain and torn hands could muster what she wanted exactly from a swing of her own dagger. He swings again, this time gripping the hilt with both hands, as the accompanying grunts turn louder from a growl, and the slash comes diagonally. Runa dodges towards her attacker, utilizing the area where the plating and fur end. 

She stabs at his thigh and is quick to retrieve her dagger by pulling it outwards, carving a path through the flesh. The mountain screams in pain and backhands Runa. The gauntlet hits her hard and knocks her into a daze. At that moment, all of her focus stays on keeping a hold of her dagger. Due to this, her balance is barely kept in check which causes her to stumble a little. 

When the daze passes, Runa manages a sliver of balance and prepares for another attack. 

The thrusting attack is easy to see coming, so Runa’s blade switches hands. Her left hand hurts like wildfire but keeps a steady hold onto the dagger. She dodges the thrust and slaps away the blade of the sword with her forearm, punching the commander square in the jaw. The searing pain reminds her of the state her knuckles are in but the punch does its job well. Her opponent staggers lightly and Runa brings her left hand over, gripping the dagger with both hands. 

She aims it at the underside of the commander's jaw but before she has a chance to stab upwards, something hits the side of her head and her vision goes blank while she stumbles for a couple of seconds. 

During this time, the greatsword’s hilt collides with her stomach, relieving her of all of her air and making her fall flat on her ass. The stone is cold to the touch, a relief to her fists, somewhat, and makes her aware of her situation even more. Her vision is restored and she can see her opponent lift the sword above her, grabbing it both by the blade and by the hilt, and thrust down, aiming at her stomach again. 

With wide eyes, Runa narrowly dodges as the greatsword is stuck into the cobble, the collision eliciting a loud noise. Raising her leg, she swiftly kicks the side of his face and rolls further away from the greatsword. At her feet, she finds the same weapon that collided with her face and almost caused her earlier demise. She picks it up and throws it in the air once, where it flips and lands back into her hand. 

What with Runa being so used to showmanship, it's hard for her to discern an actual fight and treat it any other way than how she usually does. Her hand agrees with the fact that she should take this more seriously. 

Runa spots the fact that her kick had been more effective than she had assumed: the mountain of a man was breathing far more raggedly than before, and one side of his jaw had turned limp almost, but without much hesitation, he shows his teeth and growls, lowly, with an intent to kill sparkling in his eyes. 

The greatsword is still low at his side and his urge to kill is fueled by the plan to swing again: the greatsword reaches for the sky and the brute makes his intentions known. He steps towards Runa at a pace as quick as he can muster and aims his blow high. Runa just narrowly dodges under the blade, the swing almost cutting a few hairs short. 

Runa’s time to react has diminished as the attacks seem to have sped up. The next swing is quick to follow and comes from the middle, slicing from below. Runa dodges it with ease, only to not expect the follow-up in the form of a wide horizontal cut. Managing it but barely, she swings under it and uses the blunt weapon from before to swing at the brute’s knee. It buckles and his balance gives away with a harsh hiss through the teeth. 

Taking a few steps back, Runa takes the free time to catch her breath; her adrenaline has fueled her this far and she almost barely noticed her lack of breath until the last swing. It took out of her more than it should have, usually. 

She can see the same effect taking its toll on her opponent; without much thought, the commander must have thought to protect his pride rather than think this fight through. He was at a disadvantage from the start, despite the weaponry. 

“You put up a good fight, I must say,” he grunts, between struggling breaths. 

Runa eyes him for a good second before she decides to respond. “I could say the same to you.” 

He stands up and places the greatsword to his side, still clutching to the hilt. “Only one of us is walking away. You realize this, don’t you?” 

Her breathing calms slowly and her concentration is fully onto her opponent. She stretches her neck and Runa shoots a look directly at his eyes which changes something in his demeanor. 

“I do, trust me. But it's not going to be you.” 

This answer angers her opponent and he makes another quick charge, the attack this time coming overhead but at a lower angle; he seems to almost be supporting his blade by his shoulder. It's easy to dodge but as a lesson from before, Runa expects something to follow. With a violent and wider swing, he steps back and almost screams with the effort. It comes from the other direction and Runa doesn’t have time to dodge something of this speed. 

It catches the upper part of her stomach just slightly, enough to cut through the fur, the leather and the clothes between the outside and her flesh. It makes a cut across the skin of her stomach; it's not much but it stings like a bitch, doubly so in the cold winter’s air. 

Runa runs her hand across where the cut is made and hisses.  She spins the wooden club in her hand, its iron head cold on the skin of her forearm. 

The sword shines in the moonlight as its user spins it around, from one shoulder to the other with grace. Without much of a second thought, its user swings again, this time swinging short and fast, spinning it around like before to swing again at Runa as she narrowly dodges both. After enough of those, the sword goes above the commander’s head and he aims to bring it down. It falls and instead of straight down, moves to slice to Runa’s right. 

She dodges left with the intent to end this. The club in her right hand is quick to rise after she regains her footing and it smashes into the right elbow of her opponent. He screams, the hand falling from the hilt and Runa is quick with the second swing; the club collides with the brute’s head and silences his screaming for a moment. The greatsword falls, clanging unceremoniously, and the brute follows it down, falling over it. 

With the commander on all fours, Runa decides how to end this, but she spots the commander’s hand on the padded part above the hilt and reacts in time to counter the thrust of the hilt that was aiming for her stomach: she drops the club and manages to grip the sword by the hilt before it has a chance to hit her and the adrenaline in her blood provides her with the needed focus to ignore the pain bouncing around in her forearms and hands. 

What with the use of only one hand, her opponent’s grip on his own weapon is weak. Noticing this, Runa reacts and knees the commander in the side of the head, which makes the commander stumble in his attempt to get up. When he slams back to his knees, a swift hit to the back of the head with her elbow is enough to get him to fall completely down. As he falls, Runa pulls the blade out from under him and thrusts it down into the center of his chest, quick and hard. 

An arrow connects with her shoulder, but not before she manages to deliver the blow. When the arrow forces her to recoil back, it makes her stumble a little, but Runa manages to stay up right. Everything goes a little dark and she notices that it was one of the commander’s men who shot the arrow. She also spots the rest of them coming to deal with her after what she’s done; the anger on their faces is evident. 

With her one good hand, Runa stumbles down after her dagger and throws herself backward after she retrieves it, her back colliding with the gates. A soldier eerily similar to the one whose blood coats the tip of her dagger is first to draw his sword and step after Runa. 

His thrust ends up in the door without much effort out of Runa, and utilizing this, she connects her knee with his stomach and stabs the back of his neck when he doubles over with her good hand clutching her dagger. 

Before another soldier has the chance to lose his life, Olavald pipes up from the crowd, his demeanor changed compared to how he was when he thought he had Runa in his grasp. 

“Stop!” he orders, and the soldiers listen. They look back in confusion. 

“What do you mean stop, don’t you see what she just did?” A soldier barks at Olavald, “We have to kill her!” 

“I said stop because you seem to not have a commander anymore. I also paid for your services and since there is no one to lead you, that responsibility falls to me.”

“I told your beloved commander,” he spat with an almost mocking tone, “to bring her in alive. That is what I intend to do and I don’t want you to interfere.” 

The same soldier glares at Olavald with a look of pure disgust. He follows his previous point and asks, “And who are you to decide that? I don’t want to take her in alive, she should be dead.” 

His proximity to Olavald tightens, which Runa already knows is an awful idea. That same soldier is soon to find out why when one of Olavald’s many blades finds its way into the soldier's chest. Olavald forces it in a little longer while the soldier clings for a piddling amount of life. 

“Never. Come close to me,” he whispers aloud, just clearly enough for everyone to witness. The rest had similar intent, that much was obvious, but after the little show Olavald had put on then, with how quick he can be, they chose to do otherwise. They back away from him after a moment of hesitation as the body of their comrade falls limp. 

Olavald wipes his blade on his forearm and returns it to place to a holster on the swell of his stomach. He clears his throat. 

“As I was saying: take her alive. The rest of you have a choice. Do what I say and continue working, or run.” 

He leaves the moment of silence to hang in the air. None of the soldiers chose to run. 

“Good,” he supplied, “Now do as I say.”

Runa feels herself fall limp and loses consciousness with her back still to the gates. The wound in her shoulder starts to slowly burn with white-hot pain and her forearms feel as if something has torn them off at the elbows. Her adrenaline has worn off by now. 

 

But before she could regain even a smidgen of awareness, another club meets the side of her face, rendering her unconscious. 


End file.
